


Waitering for Superman

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Dean is So Done, First Dates, Fluff, Hero Dean, Humor, I totally read hero in Brock's voice, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Metatron Being a Dick, Restaurants, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Waiter Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 14:29:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7896238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You have something to say, Mr. Nobody?”</p><p>When not one, but two pairs of eyes pit against him, Dean realizes he’s been laughing. “Two things actually,” he scoffs, setting his burger half-on top of his stack of rosemary fries, like a Leaning Tower of Fried Food—or Gastritis. “First, Junkless, I prefer Leto in Fight Club, but I understand if you’re not into blondes. You’ve made that much obvious by the way you keep hitting on your waiter. Second of all, you’re a dick.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waitering for Superman

**Author's Note:**

> This was half-inspired to pull me out of an ideas-block because I realized, after three consecutive years of doing this, I've NEVER written a waiter!au.
> 
> Also, *SPOILER* I'm not ashamed to say I easily became Team Metatron after he stood up to Chuck.

 

“Do I _look_ like a lemonade drinker?” a stout white man in a brand-name leather jacket to match his beard—and his personality—claims with a snort. “Beer. Top of the line.”

The man’s attitude doesn’t change in the slightest when the waiter returns with his request. “Samuel Adams? I asked for a beer, not a political statement—” He narrows his eyes at the waiter’s shirt, “— _Ass_ -tiel.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s the most expensive beverage we carry,” the waiter attests. Dean can’t tell if the guy’s irritated or if the gravel in his voice is just as uncontrollable as the dark hair atop his head.

He’s been watching the scene between Jerry Junkless and his waiter the way a cameraman for National Geographic watches the wild. Junkless certainly belongs in his natural habitat, as vicious as he is. He spits insults the way Dean hopes he does his order tomorrow: fast and liberally. Must be a _TMZ_ reject. Or a virgin.

“You have something to say, Mr. Nobody?”

When not one, but two pairs of eyes pit against him, Dean realizes he’s been laughing. “Two things actually,” he scoffs, setting his burger half-on top of his stack of rosemary fries, like a Leaning Tower of Fried Food—or Gastritis. “First, Junkless, I prefer Leto in _Fight Club,_ but I understand if you’re not into blondes. You’ve made that much obvious by the way you keep hitting on your waiter. Second of all, you’re a dick.”

The waiter, who Dean hasn’t gotten a good look at other than from the back, bites back a smile, causing the apples in his cheeks, newly ripened, to push the dark crescents under his night blue eyes.

“You-you, I’ll—” And for the first time in the fifteen minutes since he’s sat down, Junkless is lost for words. Instead, he slams his fists on the table and scoots out of his booth in a huff.

The waiter, something-stiel, Dean can see from his nametag it’s _Cas,_ whips his head to the man slugging the entrance door open to the newly abandoned table. Dean gets up to get a better look at the bill resting in the center like tumbleweed. Without the wind to move it, it’s just a crumpled up trespasser.

“How much did he short you?”

Cas sighs like he’s crossing the finish line of a five-mile marathon, “Three dollars.”

Dean reaches into his pocket and retrieves his wallet. Pulling out a crisp Jackson, he sets it on the table next to Abe’s wrinkled face. “For the beer.”

“Oh no,” Cas says, shaking his head as he pushes the bill away, “I couldn’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Dean chuckles, sliding the twenty back like the planchette on a Ouija board. “Trust me, guys like that are worth a tip to buy yourself a _‘top-of-the-line’_ beer to make you forget about him completely.” 

Cas smiles, this time with all his pearly whites. He lends out his hand. “Castiel.”

“Dean,” he replies, too distracted to notice the paper crinkling in his hand when Cas’s lines with his. “Dude, seriously, I really don’t mind—”

“Buying me dinner after my shift’s over?” Cas finishes, winking as he slips his hand from underneath Dean’s. “Great. Neither do I.”

***

Junkless goes by Metatron (not the Transformer), a frequenter at the restaurant not particularly couth to _any_ of the staff, but his beef tends to be a lot overcooked when it comes to the likes of Cas. Once, Metatron went as far as to shove his accusing finger in the face of his manager, Naomi because Cas is, “too handsome” to be waitering. Apparently, Metatron’s date, a woman named Jane who was far from plain with shoulder-length curls and bendy dimples, spent the majority of her time getting to know _Cas._

“I didn’t engage with her whatsoever,” Cas states after plopping a fry into his mouth. “She was hot, don’t get me wrong, but she didn’t exactly make the best impression in front of her _actual_ date.”

Dean laughs, “Can you blame her? I’d have done the same thing.” Dean goes from Oz to the Cowardly Lion in seconds, his face matching the color of Dorothy’s heels as he fumbles for his iced tea. “Not in that exact context, though—I mean… uh… you’re pretty… lukewarm.”

It’s Cas’s turn to laugh, “Lukewarm?”

“Yeah,” Dean replies, voice on the high side. “You know, nice and… comfortable.”

“So I’m a shoe.”

“Or a bathtub… you know, with the tap cranked to—you’re hot, okay? You’re hot.” Dean buries his head in his hands, still greasy between the cheeseburger and motor oil. If he knew he’d score a date today—with a _really_ hot guy, nonetheless—he’d have gone straight home and changed into something classier than a jumpsuit.

Cas leans into the table to peer up at Dean through his fingers. “You haven’t done this in a while, have you?” Dean slowly removes his hands to find Cas, a smile painting his face with one mistakenly large stroke to the left of his otherwise bare white canvas. “It’s okay,” he says as Dean, the artist in this scenario, rapidly dabs scarlet red onto Cas’s cheeks, “you’re pretty hot, too.”

Dean blushes too, but can’t help saying, “Are you sure that’s not the sriracha speaking?”

“The sriracha _definitely_ comes into play,” Cas laughs, lifting his burger again. “How did you eat this?”

“I have a little brother who was… _inventive_ … with his meals.”

“How inventive are we talking?”

“Try PB&J sandwiches drizzled in Tabasco and topped with sprinkles.”

“Oh my God,” Cas laments after swallowing his last burger intake, “that’s awful. My little brothers beat me up, but that was a quick suffering compared to that.”

Dean’s mouth flops open. “Wait, your _little_ brothers beat you up?”

Cas shrugs. “More or less. I’m the runt of the litter in a family of bodybuilders.”

“Wow,” Dean whistles, “remind me not to mess with you.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about. _Junkless,_ on the other hand…”

Dean breaks into a fit of giggles. He hates laughing at the guy. After all, he’ll have to thank him when he’s pinned against the back alley wall of his favorite restaurant by his really hot waiter.

 

 


End file.
